We Get The Funniest Looks From Everyone We Meet
by Scribbler95
Summary: Life at home with Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson and Demitria Blake. What happened between the murders and mysteries? Well they didn't exactly kick back and watch telly...
1. Chapter 1

Demi sighed as she slumped down on the sofa with a 'huff'. She had slept like a baby the previous night thanks to both the stress of the cabbie case and the fact that the night before that had been spent on the sofa of her only friend beside the two nutters she had decided for some unknown reason to share a flat with. Speaking of her two oddly matched flatmates, John was job hunting and Sherlock... well Sherlock was probably somewhere in London irritating Anderson again. She blinked slowly and picked up her phone, dialling the number.

"_Hello this is London storage. How can I help?"_

Eurgh. So cheerful. The happy American twang of the receptionist made her wince slightly.

"Hi my name is Demitria Blake, I was wondering if I could have my stuff brought from storage to my flat or whether I'll have to come and collect it?"

"_We do a delivering service ma'am. You have already paid for services. What is your address?"_

"Wonderful. It's 221B Baker Street."

"_We should be with you shortly ma'am. Thank you for using the services of London storage!"_

She flopped back.

"Well what do I do now?"

The laptop in the corner was still on, the page sensible and organised. _John's blog..._ She grinned wickedly and looked at the contents. One labelled 'My new flatmates' caught her eye. She clicked it open.

_So, last night I went to look at the flat. It's pretty decent actually. Sherlock had already moved in so it was a bit of a mess but that 's actually a nice change from where I was before. _

_And the madman himself? He's fascinating. Arrogant, imperious, pompous. He's not safe, I know that much. I'm not going to be bored and I doubt we're going to be arguing about whose turn it is to pay the gas bill or what we're going to watch on the telly. And yeah, he is probably most likely definitely mad. But, he knows a couple of nice restaurants so he's not all bad._

_So yes, we had a quick look at the flat and chatted to the landlady and a girl who when we had entered had her feet on the table and a mug of tea in her hands. Demitria Blake, the landlady's twenty-eight year old niece and (at the time) homeless genius. Well I say genius... she has two degrees so she's clearly clever. Anyway five minutes later we had a third flatmate. She is another enigma. She's brilliant but unlike Mr Arrogant she doesn't flaunt it. I doubt she even notices it. Demitria – or Demi as she likes to be called – has a tongue as sharp as a double edged sword and knows exactly how to put Sherlock in his place (a feat to be marvelled at I can assure you)._

_Then the police came and asked Sherlock to look at a body so we went along to a crime scene where Demi promptly put a certain Sargent in her place when she called Sherlock a freak one too many times. Then we chased through the streets of London after a killer and Sherlock solved the serial suicides/murder thing. We met Sherlock's brother too. Won't go into detail._

_And then we went to this great Chinese restaurant where my fortune cookie said 'There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before. ' After the night I'd had, I beg to differ._

She grinned to herself. She was a genius? She'd have an ego to rival Sherlock's soon if John kept writing things like that. Her own fortune cookie? 'A secret admirer will soon send you a sign of affection'. Yup, and pigs fly. The doorbell went and she heard her aunt speaking to the guy at the door.

"Demi sweetheart? There's a man here with your things!"

She shut down the laptop and went to get her boxes.

Two hours later she had finally unpacked all of her things. She owned no furniture so it was mainly clothing and books. She smiled and changed into clean clothes for the first time in what felt like weeks, grabbing her coat and leaving to get herself a self-congratulatory coffee.

She arrived home to hear a muffled 'thump' from the floor above. Someone was home then. She crept up the stairs and, calling her greetings, headed for her room. She opened the door and received the shock of her life.

"Sherlock! What are you doing in my – is that my stuff?"

He jumped up from where he had been examining a purple tartan skirt and looked up casually.

"Oh hello Demitira. Mrs Hudson told me your things had arrived so I decided to have a look. You really don't like pastel colours do you?"

"My door was locked."

"I was bored."

"A locked door generally means I don't want you in here." She was getting louder now.

"Why on Earth not?"

"I'm a girl! I don't like having random men looking through my things!"

"I just wanted to find out more about you considering we are sharing a flat." Both of them ignored the sound of the door downstairs, yelling random insults at each other. Sherlock – the bastard – actually seemed to be enjoying himself. The door opened just in time for Demi to yell, at full crescendo:

"You arrogant sod! You could just have asked me questions in stead of rifling through my underwear!"

John froze in the doorway, looking between the two of them.

"You looked through her underwear drawer?" He asked.

"In my defence I didn't know it was her underwear drawer."

"Well what do you usually keep in the little drawers? Human feet?" Demanded Demi at top volume.

"From time to time yes."

They just looked at him. Demi sighed and, throwing him a scathing look that would wither cornfields, marched out of the room.

That night she sat reading a book on her bed. Door locked and barricaded and a smug smile on her face.

"DEMITRIA!" Came Sherlock's voice through the keyhole.

"Yes Sherlock?" She replied sweetly, turning the page.

"What have you done with my experiment?"

"Which one?"

"The eyeballs in the jar. The one in the microwave."

She smiled to herself. No doubt he could see her through the keyhole.

"I have no idea where they went Sherlock. Maybe John knows? Now go away I'm getting changed."

She heard him stomp off and stood, setting her book down and opening her top drawer.

On top of the clothing sat a single jar.

The next day, Sherlock offered to teach her boxing if she gave his jar back.

**Teehee! I love this series!**


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson liked to think of himself as a patient man. He tried his best not to get agitated when his two flatmates resulted to the petty stealing of eyeballs for revenge or when he found chemicals stashed in his sock drawers. However when he arrived home the day after such an event to hear something smash upstairs he stood silently, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stop himself running upstairs and strangling someone.

"Come on Demitria! Is that all you've got?"

Another loud thump reverberated through the house as if someone had just hit the wall with a large hammer. He sighed and began to make his way up to the flat. As he neared the doors he what appeared to be a conversation.

"Hold still you little weasel!"

"An opponent would not hold still Demitria! Try aiming for where I will be in stead of where I am!"

He opened the door to see the sofas and chairs pushed to the sides of the room and two towels laid down on the floor to provide some sort of square-shaped arena. In front of him stood Sherlock Holmes and Demitria Blake, fists raised and wrapped with some sort of tape. Sherlock was holding a pillow with one hand and shouting instructions to Demi.

"Right hook!"

She punched the pillow angrily.

"Now again! More force! Oh good evening John. Any luck?" He asked pleasantly while Demi continued her assault on the Union Jack pillow.

"Er...no actually not yet. What are you doing?"

"I offered to teach Demitria boxing and self defence if she gave me my jar of eyes back."

Demi turned, smiled and turned back. John just nodded.

"Right. I'll put the kettle on."

He wandered into their science lab of a kitchen and filled the kettle, listening to the continuous stream of instructions and insults coming from the living room/boxing ring.

Why had he agreed to live with those two again? Oh yes...because he was an idiot.

Normal people would have arrived home to find their flatmates reading, or at work, or cooking or something. He had only been living in Baker Street a few days and so far he had helped solve a serial murder case, been kidnapped and questioned by his flatmate's brother, come home to find both flatmates engaged in a fight about the invasion of privacy and underwear drawers and finally arrived home the following day to find them boxing with pillows. He made himself a cuppa and turned to watch. Hey, if they were claiming the living room he could at least make use of the entertainment provided. They wore gloves now and the pillow had been discarded onto the floor. Both were throwing and blocking punches in an attempt to hit the other without sustaining a concussion. Perhaps it was good news they lived with a doctor the way they were going. Sherlock appeared to be better at boxing, blocking and aiming with more ease than his female opponent. However Demi's small stature and speed did make sure she didn't get too beaten up.

"Weakling!"

"Moron!"

"I'm sorry was that supposed to hurt?"

"No but this will!" She threw a particularly hard punch at his ribs. He blocked it, grabbing her arm and pinning her to his chest by her throat.

"Nice try."

She frowned and bit into his arm, receiving a small yelp for her troubles as he let go. John had never seen Sherlock Holmes so undignified. He was seriously regretting not videoing the event.

"You little beast!"

She just laughed and began throwing punches again. Sherlock blocked them nearly effortlessly.

"Come on Demitria stop wasting my time! You punch like Anderson!"

With a loud _crack! _her fist made sharp contact with his nose.

"Well it's not a bad break so it shouldn't bruise."

Sherlock glared over the handkerchief he was holding to his nose.

"And pray tell me, how is this not a bad break?" Came his slightly nasal tone.

"Well there's not too much bruising – should be gone by tomorrow..."

"You do sound like a duck though." Added Demi. He glared at her and she smiled smugly.

"Demi, at least try to look repenting." Pleaded John.

"Hey! He insulted me first!"

John fixed her with an even look and she sighed.

"I'm very sorry I broke your nose Sherlock." She said flatly.

"Apology not accepted." He replied petulantly.

"Oh go microwave your eyeballs."

**Woohoo! Review!**


	3. Chapter 3

Demi lay back on the sofa, flicking through the pages of yet another book. John was watching something on the television and Sherlock was in the Kitchen, doors closed. Every so often a strange clanking noise or the sound of glasses would echo from the kitchen and the two other residents would glance upwards.

"You all right in there Sherlock?" Asked Demi, slowly closing her book. There came a muffled response and the sounds of Sherlock setting the timer on the microwave. He came out, wiping...something off of his hands with a dish towel and closed the door behind him.

"What were you doing in there?"

"Preparing an experiment."

She sighed and re-opened her book as he sat down beside her, scraping away idly at his violin.

"Cut it out."

"Why?"

"I'm trying to read."

"I'm trying to play."

"Oh you don't want to go there sunshine."

"Go where?" He challenged, scraping an particularly sour chord on his violin. She flinched and was about to retaliate by re-breaking his nose when she was stopped by the voice of reason and right. John had decided to enter the conversation.

"Can you two take this somewhere else? If I wanted to live with children I would have chosen _them_ for flatmates. They probably would have argued less come to think of it."

They flopped back onto the sofa and pointedly ignored each other. Sherlock ceased the infernal scraping much to John and Demi's contentment. Instead he began to drum his fingers on the table to his left. She rolled her eyes.

"You are the most annoying man on the planet."

He smirked at her and continued in his percussion.

"I'm bored Demitria. And the television John watches lacks mental stimulation."

"Hey!" Came John's indignant voice.

"So?" Asked Demi. "Read a book! _Write _a book! Build a better mouse trap...just stop tapping."

He just looked at her blankly before snatching the book from her lap in a single fluid motion.

"The Da Vinci code? I didn't take you as an artist."

"It's a conspiracy novel Sherlock."

"About art?"

"Well aren't you the brightest bulb in the box?"

He glared at her, settled back and began to read.

"Sherlock give me my book back."

"You told me to read."

She just sighed and launched herself from the sofa, heading for her room. Suddenly there was an ear-splitting _BOOM! _from the kitchen and all three of them rushed to see what had happened. The microwave lay on it's side, door blown off by the force of whatever had been inside it exploding. There were shards of glass and disgusting red gunk covering every inch of the kitchen. The remains of an iris were plastered across Demitria's favourite mug and a single lens – or more what was left of it – was smeared across John's morning paper. Both her and John turned angrily to face Sherlock who stood with his hands behind his back and a very nervous expression on his face.

"Well?" Demanded John. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Sherlock held out two restaurant flyers.

"Indian or Chinese?"

**Ta dah!**


	4. Chapter 4

Demi had never expected living with Sherlock Holmes to be easy. He was obviously a man who persisted until he got what he wanted. Unfortunately what he wanted was often something she didn't want. He wanted her to answer his questions. She didn't want to. He wanted to know why she didn't just move back in with her family after University, why she lived with him and John instead. She didn't want to tell him about it. He wanted to know why she sometimes just sat beside him when he played the violin at three in the morning, why she didn't shout at him for waking her. She didn't want to admit that she felt alone, that she needed just to sit there in order to convince herself that she had friends who she could rely on. He didn't understand. That was the problem.

He didn't understand why Demi kept to herself, why she shouted at him when he read her texts or listened to her messages without her permission. He didn't understand why a girl so strong, so confident, could break so easily when he asked the wrong questions. She had threatened to leave several times. Just sat in her room, suitcase open and empty, unable to bring herself to fill it.

John always knew when Sherlock and Demitria were fighting. He would hear her crying in her room and knock on the door. She would question who it was. He would answer 'It's just John' and she would demand to know if Sherlock was with him. He would always answer no and she would crack the door open. Upon seeing that he was indeed by himself she would allow herself to cry again. He would wrap his arms around her shoulders as she cried into his jumper and ask him why Sherlock did what he did. He never knew how to answer that question.

What John didn't know was that every time this happened, every time they fought and these events would repeat themselves, Sherlock would sit in his room and listen. He had never understood other people, least of all women. He would listen to her crying become muffled as she buried her face in John's shoulder. John, the perfect friend. He would throw things in his room when he realised that he would never be perfect like that. He would feel a pang in his chest when he realised that he wanted to be perfect, so that she wouldn't cry. Or so that when she did, it would be into his shoulder not John's. It would be his arms wrapped around her thin frame. He didn't understand this. Why he wanted so much for her to trust him.

Sherlock always felt bad when, the next morning, she would make him a coffee – black, two sugars – and apologise for shouting at him. He kept his face blank, hid the inner voice that wanted to scream that she shouldn't be the one apologising, that he should be begging forgiveness for being so awful a friend. For in the short time they had known each other they had become just that. They fought and argued because it was the only thing they understood how to do properly. Sherlock, the friendless sociopath and Demetria, the broken girl with secrets he longed to uncover. When she shouted at him her eyes would shine with that fire and he would smile, he and only he could ignite that burning look on her features while his remained as cool as ice.

John would often watch his two friends and muse on how similar they were. Some might say that was why they fought. They were so used to being different to everyone else that the similarity scared them. When they fought it was like World War Three had begun. When they got along it was like they were two puzzle pieces, working so well together that they scared the police force no end. They were fire and ice at times, but at others they were just two people, two misunderstood people who needed someone to rely on.

John Watson, Sherlock Holmes and Demetria Blake. Three very different people who fought and argued as often as they didn't. However if there was one thing people in London knew, one thing criminals thought about whenever those three names were mentioned, was that even though their fights against each other were fierce, their fights to defend their friendship were fiercer.

**Reivew!**


	5. Chapter 5

Demi was hunting through the cupboards for something – _anything –_ to eat. So far she had found a stale pack of crumbs that had previously been digestive biscuits, a human ear in a pickle jar and a tin of tuna. She marched into the sitting room, a woman on a mission.

"Get off your arses we're going shopping!"

The two men in the room looked at her with either an expression of complete boredom (Sherlock) or total fear (John).

"Why?" Asked Sherlock. "Why should I go?"

"Because you mentally scar me on a daily basis with varying human limbs in various storage containers. Payback my friend. That and I'll withhold your supply of nicotine patches should you decline."

He sighed and stood, pulling on his jacket. John followed suit and soon they were wandering towards Tesco, Demi eyeing the greying sky.

"It's going to rain."

"There is about a ninety percent chance of that yes." Answered Sherlock. John paused, looked over to his flatmate and sighed.

"We're going to get wet." He stated, also staring up at the gathering clouds apprehensively.

"That does generally happen when one gets rained on yes."

"You could have warned us Sherlock. John's jumper, however stunning, is not waterproof." Joked Demi, smiling slightly as John self consciously pulled on the bottom of his jumper in response.

"What's wrong with my jumper?"

"Nothing is wrong with your jumper John." Sighed Sherlock. "Demitria's just being irritating."

She smiled smugly as they approached the large shop.

"So what do we need?" Asked Sherlock, sounding very childish as he watched John wrestle a trolley loose and wheel it over to them.

"Just about everything. Some of us do need to eat Sherlock unlike you. You seem perfectly capable of surviving on nought but coffee, tea and nicotine patches."

John chuckled at the banter as they entered the shop. Demi passed him the list and he read it through quickly, 'hmm'ing in agreement. Sherlock watched the two of them, wondering idly how they could stand to take part in such a mediocre and mundane task as shopping and how on Earth Demi had managed to convince him to join them. It was, he thought, something to do with her eyes. Frighteningly bright blue and so intense he suspected that she was almost capable of hypnosis.

"So why are we all here again?"

"Flat mate bonding time." Replied Demi, reading through the back of a bag of pasta, nodding to herself and placing it into the trolley as John added bread. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and she met his gaze evenly, a small smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

"Bonding time?"

"That and I'm fairly sure it's not healthy to spend as much time as you do in the flat. John could you grab some teabags?"

They were getting some funny looks. John was in his usual jumper and jeans, Sherlock his suit and Demi some tight black jeans and a leather trench coat. A very mix-and-match trio. She grabbed his elbow and wheeled him towards the fruit and veg section, thrusting the list at him with determination. Demi and John disbanded into various isles to find things as he sighed and marched towards the isle like a man walking to his own execution. Carrots, apples...his mind was stagnating.

"Sherlock?"

Oh goody. He turned to see Lestrade smiling slightly.

"Good afternoon Lestrade." He replied, trying to look professional with his hands full of food.

"They've got you doing the shopping eh? How did they manage that?"

"Demitria threatened to withhold my nicotine patches."

Lestrade nodded grimly.

"My wife does that."

They stood awkwardly for a moment before Sherlock reminded himself of the short but terrifying girl with a temper like mount Vesuvius awaiting the food in his hands.

"Well I'm off." Said Lestrade, trying to break the silence. "Say hi to John and Demi for me."

Sherlock nodded distractedly as he heard the sounds of raindrops beginning to fall outside. Chuckling to himself he wandered over to where Demi was eyeing the CD shelves wistfully. He crept over and dumped the food into the trolley, startling her so much that she leapt into the air, whirling to face him with a yelp. He smirked at her and she slapped him playfully.

"You bastard!"

"What's he done now?" Sighed John as he unloaded his arms into the trolley and they set off for the crowded checkouts.

"He snook up on me. Again."

"You really should get used to that you know." John smiled. Admittedly Sherlock's near silent footsteps and the fact that Demi spent a great deal of time listening to a beaten up I-pod and therefore noticed even less than usual had provided bountiful entertainment when he wasn't job hunting. Unfortunately she had rather creative methods of revenge, he blamed it on Sherlock who blamed it on some sort of madness that had yet to be discovered. She hadn't appreciated that. His flatmates were, to put it mildly, odd. And childish. They scanned the shopping through, ignoring the curious glances of the woman working the till. A single young woman shopping with two single men? _Shocking_. John rolled his eyes at the sarcastic voice in his head that sounded oddly like Sherlock. Eventually, after paying, they each hoisted as many bags as they could carry into their hands and headed for the exit. They stopped at the sight of the almost solid wall of rain before them.

"Bloody brilliant. Right on three we make a run for it." Said Demi.

"One..."

"Demi is this a good idea?"

"Two..."

"Demi?"

"Three!"

They ran into the rain and were soaked instantly. Demi laughed loudly and grinned as they ran towards Baker Street. She shoved Sherlock into a puddle the size of a small pond and he retaliated by kicking it at her.

"You're both insane!" Called John, smiling as passers by with umbrellas looked over at the scene before them.

"All the best people are!" Called Demi as they continued to run for home.

"Who's idea was it not to bring the umbrella?" Asked John as water ran down his face. Demi pointed accusingly at Sherlock.

They were all smiling as they struggled through the door to the flat, only to come face to face with Mrs Hudson.

"Oh look at you, all soaked through. Honestly, you're like the children I never had. Go on upstairs, I'll make up some hot water bottles..." She was already bustling off.

"Thanks Aunty Jean!" Called Demi as she climbed the stairs after her two flatmates.

Demi had always loved walking in the rain, loved how it made everything fresh and clean again. However, when she sat bundled up on the sofa in the biggest quilt she could find with Sherlock's grin widening with every sneeze, she was seriously considering never walking in rain ever again.

"You do realise the irony of this situation don't you?" He asked, still grinning like the Cheshire cat.

"No." She muttered, voice thick. "Enlighten me Mr Holmes."

"You were the only one of all of us to be wearing a coat. You are also the only one to have a cold afterwards. That, my friend, is irony."

"You're enjoying this aren't you?"

"Oh, immensely."

She huffed and hauled herself upright, waddling towards her room while still cocooned in her quilt.

"Lestrade says hi." He called cheerfully as she closed her door behind her.

**Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

Demi was crying. Sat on her bed she glared towards the barricaded door.

Why was the man so bloody nosey?

"Demitria stop being childish..."

"Bugger off Sherlock."

She heard him stomp off and dried her eyes, looking in the mirror by her door. Her blue eyes were watery and rimmed with red. She blinked and jumped up off of her bed.

She would not let Sherlock Holmes drive her insane.

She pulled her best clothes out of her drawers, applied her make-up carefully and methodically and tied her normally messy hair back into a sleek bun. Grabbing her purse she stalked past the two men in the living room and down the stairs.

"Where are you going?"

"Out." Was her simple answer as she slammed the door behind her.

Demi found herself wandering aimlessly through the streets of London. Sighing she paused, thinking of possible locations for her Sherlock-Holmes-will-not-irritate-me-here celebratory drink. A sleek black car drew up beside her and the door opened.

"Are you lost Miss Blake?" Came the calm, velvety voice of Mycroft Holmes. Demi blinked like a bunny caught in headlights before the power of speech returned with the force of a freight train.

"No, just looking for somewhere to cool off so that I don't murder your little brother. Know anywhere?"

He smiled slightly.

"I believe I do, would you like a ride Miss Blake?"

She thought about that. She was fairly sure that Mycroft wasn't about to snuff her and hide the body (even though he probably had the resources to do so) and so she nodded.

"I would love a ride Mr Holmes, and please call me Demi."

He nodded.

"Then you must call me Mycroft."

"I think we may have a deal there. Oh, hello again...Anthea wasn't it?"

The woman barely looked up from her texting.

"Hello."

They sat in slightly awkward silence before Mycroft spoke.

"So what's he done this time?"

She sighed and rested her face in her hands.

"Well aside from the human foot in the freezer and the large spider he put in my sock drawer as a reaction experiment and the fact that he's been reading my emails _again_, nothing."

She felt a gentle hand atop hers, prying them from her face.

"So why do you stay with him? I know first hand how intolerable he can be."

She stopped to think about that one.

"Well he's my friend. Even if he's childish and seemingly nocturnal and completely insane...I don't abandon my friends."

She stopped at the look he was giving her. It was a softer version of Sherlock's scrutinising glare. A small part of her brain noted the presence of his rather scary looking umbrella beside him.

"You are a good woman Miss...Demi. My brother should be happy to know you. I wish to apologise for our first meeting. I was simply looking out for Sherlock and...well our family is admittedly known for our theatrics."

She laughed happily.

"I can imagine. I should probably apologise as well. I'm not known for my even temper but even then I was incredibly rude."

"Have you eaten Demi?" She noted how he had willingly agreed to call her Demi whilst Sherlock had stubbornly continued to call her Demitria.

"No actually, I was in the process of hunting for food when Sherlock announced that I had an email from my mother."

He nodded and said something to the driver. They soon drew up at a rather expensive looking restaurant.

"Wow."

She heard a soft chuckle.

"Shall we?"

He held out a gloved hand. She slid hers into it and climbed out of the car as gracefully as possible.

Sherlock had just suffered a very long lecture from John about the right and wrong way to use another person's laptop. Apparently he had to _ask_ first. How illogical. Asking took time and time could be of the essence! She had been gone for hours now. John was beginning to worry. Sherlock was sat on the window sill, plucking idly at the strings of his violin. The official and intimidating car of his brother drew up. He sighed, Mycroft was wasting his time if he wanted Sherlock to do anything...this thought came to a sudden halt as he saw Mycroft help Demitria out of his car. She was smiling and laughing at something he had said. Sherlock knew his brother was less socially awkward than he was but he had been unaware anything he said could come remotely close to humorous. He set his violin down, watching the scene intently. Demitria was saying something...he focused in on her lips...thank you? What had Mycroft done that warranted thanks?

Then his brain, for the first time, stopped it's workings for a second.

Mycroft had kissed her.

On the cheek, yes. But she was _Sherlock's _friend! Not Mycroft's! He shouldn't be allowed to kiss her! He shouldn't be allowed to even talk to her!

And she was blushing?

Yes, as Mycroft led her to the door of the flat her cheeks were tinged a slight red. He heard the door open and their faint voices floating up the stairs.

"_Thanks again Mycroft, I needed some time out and dinner was lovely."_

"_Not a problem, if Sherlock continues to bother you, you know how to contact me. Good night Demi."_

"_Good night."_

She walked up the stairs after the door closed. John called his greetings. Sherlock's eyes were still frozen onto the form of his brother who was walking back to his car. Just before he climbed in, he turned and met Sherlock's eyes in a silent challenge.

Sherlock was determined to win.

"Sherlock?" Her voice came from behind him. He could smell Mycroft's cologne lingering on her cheek. He didn't answer, the look in his eyes made her want to cry. She leant down and slowly wrapped her arms around his frame, a hug. She had only hugged him once before and as of yet he was unused to the feeling. Taking his lack of response negatively she backed off, speaking quietly again.

"I'm sorry I shouted at you Sherlock. I'll make you a coffee, how about that?"

He nodded mutely and she bustled off. He wondered again why he didn't say anything, why he let her apologise time and time again and he never said a word. His mind drifted back to Mycroft's unspoken challenge, their biggest yet.

If Mycroft wanted Demi, he was in for one hell of a fight.

**Reviews are love people! **


	7. Chapter 7

Women had always been attracted to Sherlock Holmes. He supposed it was because he fit the traditional 'Tall dark and handsome' persona. It was amusing at best, and infuriatingly irritating at worst. His new flatmate however, did not seem attracted to him at all. You would think this would be refreshing.

And it probably would be, had said flatmate not been Demitria Blake.

She was different. With pale skin, ebony hair and scarily bright blue eyes.

And that bloody lipstick. Bright red and unmistakeably one of the most distracting things he had ever seen. She was constantly biting her bottom lip nervously and more often than not he would find himself stopping to stare before grasping hold of his thoughts and redirecting them back to...anywhere other than those distractingly bright lips. He had once told his brother that women were a distraction and an unnecessary one at that. And he had believed it.

Now that very brother was pursuing the one woman he enjoyed being distracted by.

Mycroft worked in government, he had good social skills, he could provide for her every whim for the rest of her life. And for that Sherlock hated him more than ever. Why pick an anti-social, freakish consulting detective who kept body parts in the kitchen over Mycroft Holmes, educated gentleman?

He stopped as that thought passed through his mind, banging his head against the wall in an attempt to stop it. His subconscious had other ideas however.

_Why did he even want her to choose him in the first place?_

Love is a chemical reaction. A release of endorphins in the brain. He had never understood the phrase 'falling in love'. It was impossible to fall into something that happened in your head. So why did he feel now like he was dropping from a great height whenever she turned those inquisitive eyes on him? Why was his breath whisked away whenever she smiled?

Sherlock Holmes didn't want love. Didn't want to be hindered emotionally. But he did want her around.

So he hid it from the world. Allowing himself only gentle contact, a grasp of her wrist or a hand on her back. Enough to tell her brother and his informers that she was off limits. And he never mentioned the lipstick. Suppressing the sudden and unwanted emotions until he was the shell he had always been. Apparently he was a very good actor because neither her, John nor anyone else for that matter had mentioned a change in his demeanour, spare that he became slightly more irritating than usual whenever a man would so much as wink in her general direction.

Sebastian, the bastard, had actually tried to flirt with her _with him and John in the room_! Luckily she had proceeded to deflect his attempts flawlessly defending Sherlock in the process.

He hadn't been able to read much about her life beyond her schooling and lack of money. She never spoke of family, never phoned any friends. So he had read her emails. There was one from a woman named Katrina stating that she and her fiancée were moving to France, one from the bank saying that her monthly repayments of University debts had been organised and one from her mother.

That one had interested him the most. It was flat, emotionless. Asking the cliché questions all mother must ask. How was she? Where was she staying? But it was clearly scripted, no emotion. This was backed up by the fact that when he had announced said email she had shouted at him angrily and proceeded to storm out of the flat a few minutes later only to return in the evening having had dinner with _Mycroft_. He had surreptitiously checked her laptop later that evening. Demitria had replied with only three words.

_Like you care._

Clearly she got along with her family just about as well as he got along with his. He had hacked emails before, some much more illegal than hers.

So why did he feel guilty? He was always probing into people's secrets, sticking his nose where it shouldn't go. So this new found feeling of self disgust worried him.

He was becoming weak, run by his emotions.

Oh my God. He was becoming normal!

Damn her! Damn her and her bloody red lipstick!

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	8. Chapter 8

It was another of those days when Demi just sat and stared into space. She wasn't due to start work for another week, there were no interesting cases for Sherlock to drag her on and day time telly was, as always, pitifully pathetic. There was nothing to distract her.

"Demitria?"

She wiped her eyes and turned to where the unusually soft voice had come from.

"Oh hi Sherlock."

"Why are you crying? Are you hurt?" If she didn't know better she would have said he was concerned.

"No Sherlock I'm not hurt."

"Then why are you crying?" He was frustrated now.

"Twenty one years ago my dad was stabbed in a mugging gone wrong."

He wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that so he just settled with an awkward pat on the back. She started to cry again.

"I'm so-sorry Sherlock-k. It's just that daddy w-was always the only person who ever unders-s-stood me..."

Where was John? He couldn't cope with this! It was ridiculous really, considering how often he had imagined her crying to him in stead of John Watson, that now it was actually happening he was having what can only be described as an internal meltdown. Hesitantly he wrapped his arms around her.

"Thank you." She said quietly. "You're an all right friend you know that?"

"Really? Yesterday I was an egotistical prick."

She laughed shakily.

"Well yesterday you were parading around half naked."

"You didn't seem to mind."

"Piss off."

They laughed quietly. His arms retracted from her shoulders and she stood.

"Do we need anything from the shop?"

"We're out of milk."

She nodded and grabbed her purse. He watched as she hopped about, shoving on a pair of worn out trainers, leaning back onto her pillows.

"I'm going out."

"I gathered."

"Don't wait up honey." She winked and turned to leave before whirling around again, face sombre.

"And thanks, really. You may not have noticed but you helped. A lot. Shouldn't be long."

She walked out of the flat, waving slightly to her aunty Jean as she left. Without the distraction of Sherlock's arms around her or the ability to inwardly laugh at his 'bunny-in-headlights' expression when she had started to cry, the world suddenly began to dull again, shadows seemed more sinister, people in general more hostile. Maybe going out had been a bad idea. She saw the clouds above her and sighed. Definitely a bad idea.

Twenty minutes, a long queue and four pints of semi-skimmed later she found herself wandering home. She saw a man lifting his daughter onto his shoulders as she squealed. Suddenly she couldn't do it any more. She stopped and collapsed into sobs against a wall just inside an alley. Sherlock had once been reading one of her books when he exclaimed out loud that an emotion couldn't possibly manifest itself as physical pain, it was psychological. She could now gladly say he was wrong. Pain tore its way through her chest like an animal and she clutched at her sides. The clouds opened and she sat there on the ground, crying so hard her head pounded and her throat burned. Understandably she lost track of time as it ticked by. Ten minutes, twenty... She didn't notice his arrival.

"Demi?" Came that cultured tone she had come to associate with the British government. She blinked and looked up at Mycroft Holmes, shivering as her tears continued to mix with the rain on her face.

"M-Mycroft?"

He smiled and held out a hand.

"This isn't to do with my brother again is it?" He asked as she took the offered hand.

"N-Not this time." She sneezed and he ushered her towards his car.

"You really shouldn't be out in the rain like this my dear." They slid into the car and she sniffled pathetically. Mycroft paused before seeing an ideal opportunity to both help her and irritate his brother. He removed his coat and jacket and handed said jacket to the young woman before him, sliding effortlessly back into his coat.

"Thanks." She smiled slightly, snuggling into the borrowed warmth of the jacket. The car was silent before she spoke again.

"I feel like an idiot now."

"Really? Do explain." She doubted he needed an explanation, being Sherlock's brother and all, but consented.

"Well it's one thing for you to see me angry and another for you to see me...like this."

"We all have our moments my dear. Ah, here we are."

He opened the door, putting his umbrella to use for the first time since their first meeting and leading her to the door. He opened it for a still shivering Demi who looked alarmingly blue-tinged only to find Sherlock stood on the other side, still pulling his coat on. He stopped, open-mouthed for a moment before regaining his composure.

"Mycroft...Demitria where on Earth have you been? Mrs Hudson was getting jumpy and John was all for calling Scotland Yard out."

She tried to reply but was shaking so much that she nearly bit her tongue in half with her chattering teeth.

"Demi here lost her way in the rain, she is of course unused to London having studied at Cambridge. Now Sherlock be a gentleman and allow the lady in. My dear perhaps you should dry yourself? We don't want you getting ill do we?"

She smiled shyly and Sherlock glowered at his brother.

"T-Thanks Mycroft. Sherlock can I...?"

"Oh by all means." He waved her up the stairs.

She hurried upwards and soon they heard the shower running.

"She's a lovely girl." Mycroft spoke in the silence.

"Keep away from her Mycroft." Sherlock's voice was cold and if possible his glare was colder. His brother laughed.

"Why should I little brother? I find her pleasant and she obviously reciprocates the sentiment. Unless of course, a claim has already – as the saying goes – been staked."

Sherlock's marble cheeks flushed slightly in indignation and Mycroft smiled.

"I didn't think so. You know this possessive streak of yours always did upset mummy."

Sherlock growled angrily.

"Get out Mycroft, I'm sure that without you the country is simply falling into ruin." He replied sarcastically, the waver in his voice only visible to the ears of a man just as perceptive as himself. He turned and left with five parting words.

"Give my regards to John."

Demi was washed and dried, pulling on a pair of pyjamas she stumbled into the living room. She had forgotten that she was wearing Mycroft's jacket and promised herself that she would return it to him. It was worn over her pyjamas to provide extra warmth. Sherlock was playing his violin morosely in his chair.

"Where's John?"

"His room. Reading another of his medical journals. Dull."

"Oh." She nodded politely. Sherlock's playing ceased.

"Do you love him?"

She whirled around. He had moved almost silently and was standing closer than she had anticipated. She stumbled backwards into the wall.

"Who? John?"

"No, no not John. Mycroft."

Her eyebrows shot into her hairline and her mouth dropped open.

"Sherlock we've met about three times... it's hardly long enough to tell."

"Not according to all of those 'love at first sight' nonsense novels you women seem to covet."

She frowned.

"I don't read..." But she was stopped as he stepped forwards again, pressing her to the wall, the scent of coffee and...Sherlock washing over her face and rendering her slightly brain-dead for a moment. She gulped and attempted to look away from the eyes that had her pinned to the wall like a butterfly to a board.

"Do. You. Love. Mycroft?" He demanded lowly. She hoped that he couldn't feel her pulse accelerate, his face dangerously close to hers.

"N...No I don't Sherlock. He is a good man and he has been very kind to me but I don't love him."

"Good." And he backed off, leaving the room swiftly. She slumped down against the wall.

She could not, _would not_. Fall for Sherlock. She couldn't. He had proclaimed when they first met that he was married to his work. He could not love her back.

She closed her eyes and banged her head back against the wall, the scent that had driven her nearly insane still lingering where he had pinned her against the wall. Exhausted, she went to bed, curling up under Mycroft's jacket.

Sherlock glanced into her room, the triumph of her revelation still ringing in his head.

She didn't love Mycroft.

Not that she loved him, but it was a vast improvement having her as a friend than a sister-in-law. His eyes zeroed in on the jacket she wore over herself. He scowled and, walking over, ripped it from her person. She shivered slightly as he threw it into the corner. Pausing at the sight of her so cold and small he did something that he might regret.

He replaced Mycroft's jacket with his own. She smiled and snuggled into the material and he watched for a minute before leaving for his own room.

**Review!**


	9. Chapter 9

Demitria had two new friends. Sherlock didn't like it.

Mrs Turner next door, a friends of Mrs Hudson's, had two lodgers, married men who had apparently decided to become 'best friends' with Demi. It really was frustrating when he needed someone to vent to or simply when he felt the flat was too quiet without her trademark 'background noise' (she enjoyed loud music and listened frequently to headphones, creating a sort of static sound to any outside parties). It was odd really, how he now felt that the world was too silent without Demitria's humming along to some gruesomely worded rock song or John complaining about his latest experiments. Anyway the bottom line is, Demitria had two new, flamboyantly gay, friends (they had claimed that she 'had style, even if she was slightly on the emo side' and that Sherlock's suits were 'simply fabulous') and despite their obvious homosexuality, he still felt that odd tightening in his chest when she smiled, or laughed at their jokes, or talked to them...

Very much like the tightening he had felt when she had entered the flat, expensive bouquet in one hand, greeting him with a cheerful 'Mycroft says hi!'.

Or when an officer at the police station had complimented her hair and made her blush.

Or when a random stranger had winked at her in a café while they were observing a suspect...

Perhaps he ought to lock her in the flat. This tightening could only foreshadow some sort of coronary ailment. No one would flirt with _his _friend if he locked her in the flat, thus saving Sherlock some sort of heart attack.

He was just considering exactly how to lure her in (his most successfully planned idea being a large pot of Ben and Jerry's) when the door downstairs opened.

"All right then Joe, thanks for the tea!"

"Not a problem darling! Say hi to Sherlock won't you?"

"Go back to your husband you flirt! Go on! Scat!"

She crashed her way up the stairs and collapsed through the door, shopping bags looped onto her arms, cheeks flushed a light pink and eyes sparkling happily. Sherlock scowled and she rolled her eyes.

"Don't look so pleased to see me, you might pull something."

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, my dear."

She grinned and winked at him, slumping down onto the sofa with a huff.

"How on Earth did you afford those clothes?"

She winced, her status as 'pauper of the household' was a sore spot. One that Sherlock very frequently poked.

"I do have some money Sherlock, and aunty Jean practically thrust some more at me..."

Ah, that was it then. Since her re-uniting with her 'favourite niece' (she had confided in Sherlock in one of her motherly gossip sessions – one he was using in order to subtly gain information on Demi's family – that her other niece was an absolute spoiled brat. Well she hadn't exactly said that but the words 'Demi's absolutely nothing like her', coupled with an extremely sour expression, had told him all he needed to know.) Mrs Hudson had taken it upon herself to be a stand-in mother figure for the bizarrely happy goth.

"Ah."

"Don't give me that look, I already feel like a sponge."

"You don't look like a sponge."

"Ha ha." She replied sarcastically, flopping an arm over her eyes tiredly. Suddenly a bouncing male figure all but leaped up the stairs.

"Demi sweetie, you dropped your phone...oh hello there!"

Joe immediately began primping at his clothing. Demi smirked.

"Mind out of the gutter Joe, thanks for the phone."

"Any time love. Bye Sherlock!"

And he bounced downstairs again. Demitria inspected her phone.

"Looks like its been through a bloody blender..."

"No it doesn't."

"Of course you of all people would know what a phone looks like after going through a blender." She giggled to herself and his ego swelled slightly. Demi hauled herself upright and heaved the bags through to her room.

Hours later, Sherlock found a new scarf on his bed. Plain black, cashmere.

John found a new jumper, knitted and warm.

Mrs Hudson entered her flat and found a smiling Demi, presenting her with _that dress_, the one she had been pining over for weeks.

Demitria was a good person. She had issues yes, but so did everybody else on the planet. She and John had taught Sherlock what it meant to be a friend.

The next day, Sherlock approached John and Mrs Hudson, putting his plan into action.

The flat was silent when Demi got home. Never a good sign. She flung her coat onto the bannister and trudged upstairs. Her phone was on the blink again and to top it all off it was raining.

"Hello? Anybody home?"

Silence. She shrugged and all but crawled into her bedroom.

There was a package on the bed. She walked cautiously closer and gasped, opening the box and withdrawing the phone inside. Shining new and bright red, a tear rolled down her cheek as she smiled.

"Don't you like it? We can get another one if..." She cut him off with a hug. Sherlock had learned to expect these whenever Demitria was feeling emotional and so had braced himself for impact. John and Mrs Hudson smiled from the doorway.

"It's perfect."

After Demi had dried her eyes, her aunt lined her, Sherlock and John up in the tidiest part of the flat and snapped a photograph with the new phone (after several failed attempts including a rather detailed one of her thumb). Later on, she sat up while Sherlock played his violin and John shouted through the wall for him to pack it in, phone on her lap, screen illuminated.

The picture showed all of them perfectly. John was smiling amiably, Sherlock had his I'm-bored-can-I-go-shoot-the-wall? expression on (coupled with an odd half-smile that he seemed to reserve for when he was around her and John) and Demi stood between them, an arm on each of their shoulders, grinning madly.

They were perfectly imperfect.

She lay back, allowing the familiar bickering to lull her to sleep.

**Any good? Tell me!**


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock knew something was wrong as soon as he opened the front door. John was at work, Mrs Hudson was visiting a friend but Demi should have been home, meaning that she would be dancing around, swearing whenever she stood on an experiment and humming along to 'Green Day' (who when he had confessed he knew nothing of she had gaped like a fish and shaken her head muttering 'You need educating. Big time!'). He could however hear what appeared to be whimpering. He raced up the stairs and opened the door.

"Demitria?"

She was curled up in the mess on the floor, several empty bottles around her, crying quietly. She didn't appear to be fully conscious but she faced him all the same.

"Am I a bad person Sherlock?"

He frowned as she shook violently.

"Demitria how much have you had to drink?"

"She thinks I'm a bad person! She...she..." She sobbed loudly, slumping back onto the pile of books to her left with a 'thud'. Sherlock crouched before her.

"Who did?"

She just shook her head and pointed to the phone. He stood and picked it up, pressing the button for the answer machine.

"_No new messages...most recent message received at..." _He sighed as it went through the motions, frowning as the actual message began to play.

"_Demitria it's your mother. I have to say I am extremely disappointed in you. Sebastian just came by and told me that my daughter is off living with two single men! Honestly, I thought I raised you right! He tells me that one of them threatened him! I never thought of you as the type to sleep around dear but it looks that way to me! My daughter acting like some common tart? And solving murders! If something goes wrong don't you come crying to me young lady! What would your father think? You need to get your act together!"_

The message shut off abruptly and Sherlock looked down to see his knuckles straining against snowy white skin. How dare that woman upset his friend! As if to back up his point, Demitria gave another sniffle by his feet. He sighed and scooped her up, she looked so small and scared without her make up and 'I know something you don't' grin. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket like they were a lifeline.

"Do you think she's right Sherlock? Am I a dis-disappointment?"

He shook his head and kicked her door open. He had been told that he was not to enter her room upon pain of death but it was a special occasion. He lay her down gently as he spoke.

"You are not a disappointment, you are not a bad person and you are definitely not a tart."

She pulled him over and snuggled into his chest.

"Demitria you are very drunk-"

"I'm cold." She shivered as if to make a point. "I'm so cold Sherlock..." Her eyes drifted shut and her breathing deepened. He just lay there, unsure of what to do, before peeling her off of him, laying a blanket on her (he wasn't completely heartless) and creeping from the room, picking up the phone and writing down the number the message had been sent from.

Demitria's mother was just waving goodbye to her _sane _daughter when the phone rang. She bustled over and picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello Mrs Blake? This is Sherlock Holmes, I'm your daughter's flatmate."

She froze.

"I'm sorry but I think you might have the wrong number-"

"Oh I know I don't. I know it's the right one because this is the very number that just left a very offensive message directed towards my friend. What do you have to say to that Mrs Blake?"

"She needed talking to-"

"That is no way for a mother to treat her child! You should be ashamed madam!"

"Now you listen here Mr Holmes..."

"No you listen! Demitria Blake is the single most intelligent woman I have ever come across. She is not a tart, she is not a disappointment and she is most definitely not sleeping around. And the fact that you had the sheer audacity to try and use her father against her – well put it this way yes I did threaten your son, who I might add was incredibly rude to his sister, myself and several members of the police force, and now I have a message for you: Demitria Blake is brave, kind and ferociously loyal. She got two degrees – something most people only dream about – and you have ignored and neglected her. If you ever hurt her in the way you did earlier today ever again the after effects will never leave you. Because Demitria Blake is no longer a little girl that you can control. She is independent, she is my friend and she. is. protected. Now if you will excuse me madam I have a life to live. Which I might add is infinitely more exciting than yours. I have Demitria. Your loss, my gain. Goodbye now!"

She blinked slowly, her eyes drifting to the photographs on the mantle, one of which showed herself and two happy blonde children beside one girl with black hair and blue eyes, looking straight at the camera as if she knew it's deepest secrets, a small smirk on her face. She couldn't be controlled even then and now she had a rather scary flatmate ramming that point home...

Demi had a migraine when she woke up, the events of the day flooding back painfully fast. She shoved on some glasses and stumbled into the kitchen where Sherlock was prodding a frog with an electric probe.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

"Me too. Don't worry though I sorted things out...ow!"

She stared.

"What do you mean 'sorted things out'?"

"I had a lovely chat with your mother. I don't think she'll be insulting you again."

She smiled and waited for him to set the probe down before attacking him with a fierce hug. He hugged back gently, having found that this response was generally best.

"She was wrong you know, about everything." He said.

"Really?" She murmured against his jacket.

"Yes. Well I say everything... I did threaten your brother. It was highly amusing."

She giggled and winced as her head throbbed. He handed her a coffee.

"No chemicals?"

"No chemicals." He confirmed. She stood on her toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"Thanks Sherlock."

And she left, still massaging her head. Sherlock just stood there, hand raised to his cheek.

Where were Mycroft's photographers when he needed them?

**Woohooo!**


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